 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
46
THE SHOP GIRL.
Day after day, she wakes to plod
The one same weary round,
Sport of each idle whim or nod,
Within her prison bound;
A slave to petty tyrants, urged
Hither and thither still,
By folly's insults hourly scourged,
At fashion's wanton will;
No rose of pleasure wreathes the chain,
That curbs her cramping part,
But ever a dull growing pain
Eats into her sick heart.
The one same weary round,
Sport of each idle whim or nod,
Within her prison bound;
A slave to petty tyrants, urged
Hither and thither still,
By folly's insults hourly scourged,
At fashion's wanton will;
No rose of pleasure wreathes the chain,
That curbs her cramping part,
But ever a dull growing pain
Eats into her sick heart.
Week after week, with listless hands
The hateful task she plies,
Behind the dismal counter stands,
Repeats the stale old lies;
Takes down the parcel from the shelf,
And puffs its varied store,
Then puts it up to curse herself,
Just as she did before;
Drags to and fro her aching feet,
Through the dark endless day,
Envies the harlot on the street,
Who yet goes freedom's way.
The hateful task she plies,
Behind the dismal counter stands,
Repeats the stale old lies;
Takes down the parcel from the shelf,
And puffs its varied store,
Then puts it up to curse herself,
Just as she did before;
Drags to and fro her aching feet,
Through the dark endless day,
Envies the harlot on the street,
Who yet goes freedom's way.
Month after month, she bears a load
That breaks the feeble back,
And writhes beneath the labour's goad,
Along her dreary track;
Assumes the winning word and smile,
A mirth she cannot know,
And polishes with pretty wile,
The dirty work below;
Renews the sordid cares in sleep,
The haggling without stop,
While rise as ghosts, that shrouded creep,
Grim shadows of the shop.
That breaks the feeble back,
And writhes beneath the labour's goad,
Along her dreary track;
Assumes the winning word and smile,
A mirth she cannot know,
And polishes with pretty wile,
The dirty work below;
Renews the sordid cares in sleep,
The haggling without stop,
While rise as ghosts, that shrouded creep,
Grim shadows of the shop.
Year after year, she drudges on,
Fettered to iron strife,
Though health her only friend is gone,
And nothing left but life;
The same mean duties bringing yet
The pittance, sneer or frown,
The same sad burdens daily set,
That grind her lower down;
Till, stript of beauty, hope and strength,
Stooping to the first knave,
She drops a broken toy at length,
Damned, in a harlot's grave.
Fettered to iron strife,
Though health her only friend is gone,
And nothing left but life;
The same mean duties bringing yet
The pittance, sneer or frown,
The same sad burdens daily set,
That grind her lower down;
Till, stript of beauty, hope and strength,
Stooping to the first knave,
She drops a broken toy at length,
Damned, in a harlot's grave.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |